Saturday, November 29, 2014

I have had three men in my life who have deeply influenced
me, each one at a different phase of my development as a human being. The first
was my father, who shepherded me into manhood. The second was my first lover,
who I lived with for sixteen years, and who taught me the value of education,
and infused me with the tools to become successful. The third is my husband and
soul mate, who more than anyone, has taught me—through example—to be a compassionate
human being. In all three cases, it was not their accomplishments that had an
impact on me, but rather, the strength of their character that shaped that part
of my life.

For this second installment, I’ll focus on my first lover. I
met John Aherns in Corpus Christy, Texas while stationed on the naval base in
Kingsville, Texas. He was living in Huston at the time, and for several months
we carried on a long-distance relationship, spending two or three weekends a
month together. It was nothing too serious because I knew I would be leaving
Texas the very minute I received my discharge from the Navy, but he was
handsome and successful and more refined than anyone I’d ever known, so I was
determined to spend as much time as possible with him. But about six months
before my discharge, to my surprise and delight, John quit his Huston job and
moved to Kingsville, announcing that when I left for California, he was coming
with me. I moved off base, lived with John in a studio garage apartment, and we
got along like a house on fire. So began a sixteen-year project of what I like
to call, Educating Alan.

We started this project when John joined a book club that
sent us one leather-bound, classic per month. He and I would both read the book
and then spend several days discussing the meaning, characters, and style. For
me, there was something wondrous about reading a finely made, leather-bound
book. I loved the feel and smell of the pages, the weight of it. I confused the
act of learning with the smell of fine leather. I saw myself doing something
that only, or so I thought, intellectuals did—sit quietly for hours on end
reading important books. Not all of those books were a pleasure to read, but
each one was a stepping-stone to a place of more confidence for me. As the number
of books on our little shelf grew, I began to imagine a room filled with
bookshelves that were crammed with tomes, all mine, where I’d spend my time
letting literary people carry me away into distant adventures. Thus, we joined
two more book clubs, receiving three books a month, and I began to see that
dream take shape.

Those early months were more than just reading, of course. It
was a time when I learned, quite unexpectedly, that I could have a loving,
monogamous relationship with a man. Until that point, I had assumed that my
life as a gay man would be hanging out in bars, always on the lookout for
someone to spend a few precious hours with, or days and possibly even weeks or
months if I really scored.It seemed
like such a lonely future, but John—in those quiet hours of reading together,
of cooking a meal and watching TV over dinner, of crawling into bed with the
same wonderful man every night—showed me a loving relationship was not only
possible, I was already living the dream. I think it was during that time of
awakening to what we had, what we were, that turned my admiration of John into
love for him.

After I was discharged from the Navy and we had settled into
an apartment in Sunnyvale, California, John took a Computer Programmer’s job in
San Francisco, and I landed a job operating construction heavy equipment in
what is now Silicon Valley. John convinced me to attend night school at De Anza
Community College. By that time I had begun to realize how woefully inadequate
my education was, and it was never so obvious as when we attended parties of
his work colleagues, and they would look down their noses at me, talking down
to me as whispering behind my back (loud enough for me to hear) calling me,
“John’s sexy nitwit” (the term boy toy was not invented yet.) I became hungry to catch up, to show them all.
This would be a pattern for nearly our entire sixteen-year relationship, him
working one job and taking care of me, me working a fulltime, lower-paying job during
the day while attending night school.

Two years after moving to Sunnyvale, I finally decided on a
career path to study for. I wanted to program computers, like John. There was
an opening at his company for an entry-level person, basically a gofer, that
paid next to nothing. I took that job, we moved to San Francisco, and I began
attending SF State, taking a half load at night.

The next five or six years were among the most exciting and
colorful years of my life. Being gay and living in hottest gay hub in the world
was exciting enough, but once I began taking computer classes and working my
way up the corporate ladder, I felt like a man with a mission and a full head
of steam. For the first time in my life, I had lofty goals and the confidence
to know that, with enough commitment, I could achieve those goals. My attitude
became: nothing will stop me, I will become as good as the best of them. John had
created a monster, and there was no turning back. There are times, now, when I
picture a mountain climber, struggling up K2, exhausting himself with each
heavy lift of his boot, and each lurch up the slope, until he’s expended every
ounce of energy. But he finally crawls his way to the summit, and then stands
tall while shaking his fists at the valleys below.

Over the next decade, we moved from San Francisco to
Sausalito, and two year later we moved further north to San Rafael where we
bought a lovely three-bedroom home. As I steadily climbed the corporate ladder,
I also hung my diplomas on the wall—Associates of Arts degree in Computer Science,
a Bachelor of Science degree in Economics, and a Master’s degree in Creative
Writing. In all that time, John continued to help me with my schoolwork,
proofread my papers, giving me encouragement. While working toward by economics
degree, he even took classes with me so he could better help me. And in all
that time, we continued our reading together and discussing books. He also
introduced me to opera, classical music, and jazz, giving me lessons in what’s
considered the fine arts.

I had originally entered the writing program at the
University of San Francisco as a way to improve my business writing skill, but
the by time I had attained my degree, I had fallen in love with the creative
aspects of writing fiction. My dreams had changed. I no longer wanted to
continue climbing the corporate ladder. By that time, there were only three
rungs left to climb, and I had become frustrated with corporate management. I
wanted to quit and become a full time writer. I was caught in the early stages
of a midlife crises. The problem, however, was that John was already eyeball
deep in his own crises and wanted to cut and run. We made a deal, I would
support him while he went to medical school to become a physician’s assistant
(he felt a strong need to help sick people) and once he had a good paying job
again, he would support me while I walked away from Corporate American to
become a full time writer.

Our roles were reversed for the first time. I was working
like a dog while he attended school at UC Davis, and I would help write his
papers. But cutting our household income in half had a dramatic effect on both
of us, and the stress became unbearable. It took years for John to achieve his
degree, and I supported him for most of that time, but the stress of both of us
in a midlife crisis and not enough money to pay all the bills at the end of the
month took its toll on our relationship. He eventually moved out of our San
Rafael house, and I got a loan to purchase his half of the house in order to
give him the money to finish his schooling.

Braking up with John, I think, was the hardest thing I’ve
ever had to go through, even more emotionally damaging than the death of my
father. It became a drawn out, painful process that took several years to
recover from. For sixteen years, John was my lover, my teacher, and the epitome
of everything I wanted to achieve. He patiently guided me down a path, starting
at dirt stupid and ending at reasonably intelligent. By the end of our
relationship, I had attained my goal—I was his equal in intelligence, career
level, and earning power. And the funny thing was, as is human nature, by the
time I had attained those dreams, I no longer valued them.

John and I are best friends today. He and his
husband, Jeffery, live in the mountains a short three-hour drive away. Herman
and I regularly visit them, and we all enjoy each other’s company. John and I
still love each other, but we are happier living apart.

Review: I came across this quote recently
“Beginnings hook readers, endings create fans”, I don’t remember where I read
it, but it came to mind as I started to write this review. I have been a big
fan of Alan’s work since reading the first chapter of ‘Butterfly’s Child’.
Alan’s writing always sits so well with me, I love his creative descriptions of
the mundane to that of pure beauty. His words always flow so well on the pages,
and his characters are not made to be unrealistically, hot or hideous. They’re
perfectly natural beings, with real emotions and flaws. Not one character is
too perfect to be real or too mysterious to be anything other than human. You
could pass one of Alan’s characters in the street, meet them on your journey to
work, work alongside them possibly or whilst hanging out with friends. Now it’s
not because these characters are boring that I’d associate them with everyday
life, but because Alan has the ability to give them life in the pages of his
books.

The characters in First Exposure are not just a photographer or
a painter or a sailor. Alan’s descriptions are expressed so well that you can
almost hear the click of a camera, the flick of a paint brush and feel the
crispness of a shirt. With each character all sides of their personalities are
revealed, allowing you to know them intimately. A character you may feel
uncomfortable with at the start could well be the one you fall in love with at
the very end.

Petty Officer Second Class Skylar Thompson, is aboard the USS
Abraham Lincoln supercarrier. Skylar is married to Rosa and they have a son,
Hunter. Skylar questions his career choice as his family struggle to make ends
meet on his pay from the Navy. This leads Skylar into turmoil over his actual
career and that of his preferred, dreamed of vocation as an artist. Although he
is popular and has friends on board his ship, he often feels uncomfortable in
the company of the other men who are loud mouthed, shallow and crude. Skylar
doesn’t like the sexual connotations made against some of his fellow crew
members, especially one man, Dumphy. Skylar is a straight man but feels
compassion and a little sorry for Dumphy, he admires Dumphy’s courage to stick
it out.

Seaman Ezra Dumphy has had life pretty tough, he is a young gay
man with a love of photography. Never without his camera, Ezra is fascinated by
Skylar and craftily steals shots of the man. I really liked Ezra as he is a
survivor, Ezra falls into terrible situations. Life has a habit of kicking him
where it hurts, but he’s a toughy and despite his appearance he does his best
to take care of himself. He wants to be loved, have friends but he doesn’t
suffer fools gladly and he gives as good as he gets. With a father who beat him
and a mother who doesn’t appear to have protected him, he spent much of his
teens living on the streets.

When Skylar and Ezra are brought together serving aboard the
same ship they unexpectedly find themselves looking out for each other. Through
this story their worlds collide leading them to new friends, new lives and
sanctuary, but it’s not without tribulation. Fueled by resentment and revenge
Skylar and Ezra have to first sail through some very rough seas.

If you love a gritty tale, true friendship and forgiveness
you’ll not be disappointed here.

Monday, November 24, 2014

My life has not been filled with influential people. I’ve
known numerous men and women who I have admired, but for the most part, I did
not come to know any of them personally, and because of that, they held little
inspiration for me.

My family, on both mother’s and father’s side, had no
notable personalities, or at least nobody who could claim any pronounced
abilities or achievements. I come from a family of farmers and ranchers. I did,
later in life, come to hold my grandfather in high regard, because he could
neither read nor write, and yet he worked a rather sizable farm in Ogden, Utah,
and raised seven conscientious children. He was a man who worked hard all his
life, and expected nothing more than what he earned for himself and his family.
His only goal was to instill a sense of integrity into his children, and pass
on something to each one of them to help them get started in life. As his children
grew of age and married, he parceled off one-seventh of his land and gave it to
them as a wedding present, until he had nothing left—rather like King Lear. But
because my father moved us to California, not only did we forfeit the land, I
rarely saw that honorable man.

I have had three men in my life who have deeply influenced
me, each one at a different phase of my development as a human being. The first
was my father, who shepherded me into manhood. The second was my first lover,
who I lived with for sixteen years, and who taught me the value of education,
and infused me with the tools to become successful. The third is my husband and
soul mate, who more than anyone, has taught me—through example—to be a
compassionate human being. In all three cases, it was not their accomplishments
that had an impact on me, but rather, the strength of their character that
shaped that part of my life.

I’ll first focus on my father. Bernard Franklin Hurlburt was
born into a family of sheepherders in Western Colorado, up around Grand
Junction. Shortly after entering the seventh grade, he was forced (I suspect it
didn’t take much encouragement) to abandon school and work the ranch through
depressed times. That turned into a hard, dull life, which he was finally able
to escape via the United States Marines. He enlisted as soon as he came of age,
and I believe that all his life, he considered his stint in the Marines as the
happiest time of his life.

As a young solider, Bernard was footloose, handsome in his
dress blues, and had money in his pockets to impress the girls. He was, by all
accounts, a ladies man. By the time he reached his twenty-first birthday, he
met a beautiful deaf girl of eighteen years, and he fell in love. He met my
mother, a farmer’s daughter, in Ogden, Utah. I’m not altogether sure whether he
was on leave or stationed nearby. I do know that they met while he was still in
the service of his country, and that she was the main reason he left the
Marines for civilian life. They were wed and took up residence in Ogden.

Bernard had no skills other than ranching sheep and
precision marching (as a marine, he was a member of a precision drill team).
For years, he hung around a mechanic shop in Ogden, learning the trade of auto
repair. Those were hard times, because he didn’t get a salary. Members of the
Mormon Church dropped by weekly with a box of food. The rest of our food came
from my grandfather’s farm. Clothes were all hand-me-downs. My mother tells of
walking to the general store and bringing home discarded, cardboard boxes, and
then unfolding the boxes flat and nailing them to the walls so keep the winter
wind from coming through the gaps between the boards. The first few years of my
life were spent in a shack. The rent was ten dollars per month, and in two
years we fell six months behind on the rent.

By the time I was two years old, Bernard landed a paying job
as a auto-body repairman, and life got easier—at least my family didn’t rely on
the Church to feed us. By the time I was five, my father had grown tired of my
mother’s protective family giving him grief, and he moved us all to San Jose,
California. There he bought a house and opened his own auto repair shop and
towing company. Life began looking better, but was by no means Ozzie and
Harriet.

Throughout my grade-school and high-school years my father
kept food on the table and clothes on our backs through working his shop, The
Santa Clara Body Shop. Life was still difficult, much harder for him that I
realized at the time, because he couldn’t read and he needed an adding machine
to do even simple arithmetic. Add to that he developed a drinking problem and
liked to chase women. Mother, being deaf, totally depended on him for income.
It became a heavy burden for him, and as the years drew on, the burden became
heavier.

Those school years in San Jose are the time he held the most
influence over me. He taught me valuable life lessons, molded my character, and
also taught me destructive behavior.

My father was a man with many qualities, and the foremost was
his tendency to take risks. When people told him he couldn’t do something
because he didn’t have the education or the money or the knowhow, he found a
way. Once he set his mind on something, his determination grew as strong as
tempered steel. As the example above, learning a new career, his fortitude kept
him showing up at that mechanic shop, day after day, year after year, doing odd
jobs for no pay, because he knew someday it would pay off, some day he would be
his own boss.

More than any man I’ve ever known, he made the most with the
hand life dealt him, and he never let his shortcomings stop him from attaining
something he truly wanted. I remember learning to ski with him. He refused to
pay for lessons or rent proper equipment (which was so typical of him). We
simply borrowed someone’s old, dilapidated skis, boots and poles, took the
chairlift to the most difficult runs, pointed our skis down hill, and flew
until we fell. Then we picked ourselves up, point the skis down hill again, and
off we sailed until the next fall. At the end of the first week, we could make
it down most of the slopes without falling, and we never returned the borrowed
skis. That was how he rolled, and that’s the paramount lesson he taught
me—never be afraid to go after something, no matter the obstacles. Just do it,
and keep doing it until you become good at it.

Even at an early age I admired him for his determination,
his grit. I still do.

The negative side of that equation, however, was that early
on, he drummed it into my head that I didn’t need an education to become
successful. As long as I didn’t dream too large, reach too high, I could blow
off schooling, which is what I did. I became, like him, streetwise, and held a
mild distain for people who worshiped in the halls of higher education. I
became convinced that I could live a comfortable life by not playing by the
rules, or more accurately, by living by my father’s set of bull-in-a-china-shop
rules, and living by the seat of my pants.

So high school was a waste for me, I never cracked a book; I
learned little or nothing there. That attitude was fortified during my four
years in the US Navy, where I got along quite well without being educated. In
the navy I was in my element, surrounded by others like me, being always governed
by the officers (men who were college educated).

It wasn’t until I met my first husband, John Aherns, that my
dreams grew larger than my education. John was cultivated, professional, and
respected. He worked as a computer analyst, spent money frivolously, and for
whatever inexplicable reason, he became enamored by me. Almost over night, he quickly
became everything I wanted to be. Because of John, I was no longer content to
live a smallish life, held back by the limitations my father had pounded into
me. My dreams expanded, like climbing a trifling foothill, only to finally see
the glorious mountain range beyond.

I will always be both grateful and resentful of my father’s
lessons. It has taken a lifetime to undo that initial damage, yet he also instilled
the determination to never give up, to dream big and make it happen, even if it
takes a lifetime.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

I recently read and reviewed a 750 page, self-published novel that was written by a talented writer, and yet, I had a great deal of trouble muddling through the story. Not only was I not totally satisfied with the read, but the author contacted me after I posted my review to let me know I had missed several of the themes he had woven into the story. I freely admit that, although I caught some of the more obvious themes, several he mentioned did blow right over my head. He was very disappointed. It was a shame because much of his story was quite entertaining.I’ve been thinking about his novel, my review of it, and the author’s response to my review for weeks now. The most prominent complaint that I expressed in the review was that the story was simply overwritten, and could benefit from cutting up to three hundred pages from the story, to tighten the storyline and focus more on the major themes.After weeks of thought, I stand by my first analysis. I believe the main, and possibly the only, problem was the writer tried to encompass too much, too many ideas, into his story. He was so ambitious, trying to make his story grand, that many of the themes got lost in the shuffle.I often do this myself when writing a first draft. I don’t realize what the major themes are until I’m deep into act three and all the subplots are coming together for the climax. But once the lightning bolt hits and I understand what my subconscious was striving for, then I’m ready for a major rewrite.Once I know the premises, I write a theme statement, or two if there are multiple major themes, and I post them on my tack board over my desk. From that point on, the theme statements are my litmus test for cutting or keeping.Particularly while writing the second draft, anything I find that doesn’t advance the major themes gets cut. Once while writing The Lonely War, I cut the first two hundred pages in half. The result was a cleaner read, and everything that was left did advance the themes.My point is, be clear about what ideas the subtext of your story is creating, and keep the number of themes to a minimum. Two is good, one is better. In short, don’t muddy the waters by trying to do too much.For my stories, I like to have two different subplots going on that are loosely linked, each with it’s own theme. At some point, usually deep into act three, I bring the two subplots together to pound home one overall premise. This approach is nothing new. In fact, writers have been using this technique since Rome was a village.Again, the point is, know your theme, and cut anything that doesn’t progress that idea. Hopefully, you’ll end up with a tighter, cleaner manuscript.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Yesterday
was one long-ass day. Left the house at 7:30am, with Jimmy driving us to the
airport. Twenty-six hours later, we arrived at our hotel in Silom, Bangkok.
Didn’t sleep on the plane, but did manage to watch five movies, one of which
was terrific (I Origins), two others that were enjoyable, (Chiefs, Begin Again)
and two that were basically “Hollywood” duds (Grand Budapest Hotel, And So It
Goes). In And So It Goes, Michael Douglas and Diane Keaton had zero chemistry
and a tired cliché plot. Keaton has done too many of these types of slick comedy/romance
movies, all of which were better than this one.

The
one thing I’m completely sure of at this moment is that the older I grow, the
harder jetlag hits me. I soon may need to take shorter hops to get to a
destination. Takes more time and money, but so much easier on the body.

I
managed to get a lot of reading in. I’m reading Isherwood on Writing, which
presents Christopher Isherwood’s lecture series on writing he gave at various
universities in Southern California during the early sixties. After having read
his diaries of that time in his life, I’m really enjoying his personal views on
his writing processes, which during that time in his life were mostly
autobiographical. I do love his writing, and I will need to re-read A Single
Man as soon as I return to California.

Jetlag
aside, I’m thrilled to be back in Thailand. Love this culture, people, cuisine.
I’ll be here for two months before moving on to Burma, and then Vietnam.

To
all my friends back home, I already miss you and I’ll see you in the Spring.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

On
Monday morning Herman and I board a plane for Southeast Asia, where we’ll
vacation for the next three months. We plan to visit Thailand, Burma, Vietnam,
and possibly Hong Kong. All preparations have been made:

-House
sitters are moving in Monday afternoon

-Gardeners
and pool man are prepaid

-Bills
are paid electronically

-All
flight & hotel reservations are made

-Visas
are acquired

-Currency
has been exchanged

-Said
goodbye to all friends

-Ride
to and from the airport is arranged

The
only thing left to do is pack the bags.

The
secret for packing for a long haul vacation is to take as little as possible.
Herman and I each carry one backpack carry-on that holds our computers, phones,
travel documents, toiletries, books, and our Kindle. We each have one checked
piece of luggage, but those are very small bags. We take few clothes, and get
them cleaned at Mom&Pop laundries as often as possible. Laundry service is
Asia is very cheap. A kilo of clothes—wash, iron, and fold with one-day
turnaround—costs only a few bucks.

Fortunately,
SE Asia is quite warm this time of year, so we need not take any heavy clothing
for cool weather.Beside what we wear on
the plane, shorts, T-shirts, sandals, and an outfit for fine restaurants is all
one needs in that climate.

So
for the next few months I’ll be posting travel pics from Asia. Hope you enjoy.

Books By Alan Chin

About Alan Chin

I write novels, short stories and screenplays.
I am the author of eight published novels and three unpublished screenplays. You can read about all my pubished works at http://alanchinauthor.com
I live and write half of each year at my home in Southern California, and spend the other half of each year traveling the globe with my husband, Herman Chin.